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The Jungle

by Cristel Hastings

published in WEIRD TALES, December 1927

The snakelike vines reach out on every side,

Weaving a swing where chimpanzees may ride

And chatter in the sullen, lifeless noon

While all about the purple shadows swoon.

The crumbling logs of trees lie everywhere,

Encrusted with rare orchids here and there—

Deceiving bits of loveliness ot lure

Unwary feet that brave the sodden moor.

The moon looks in between the fronded beams

Of wicked plants that stand, until it seems

The night is made of moss and leaf and bole—

A hopeless wood—a place without a soul.

Never a star looks in this silent gloom—

This tangled maze of green from Nature’s loom—

Never a sound, save macaws’ chattering

And chimpanzees’—haunting their aerial swing.